


Evil Like That...

by BlindSwandive



Series: Evil Like That, You Don't Forget [1]
Category: Tin Man (2007)
Genre: Azkadellia is Evil, Bondage and Discipline, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Glitch is confused, Glitches and interruptions, Physical Abuse, Skull anatomy, magical abuse, sex drugs and violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 14:12:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15390504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindSwandive/pseuds/BlindSwandive
Summary: Pre-series.  After Ambrose's brain is dissected, Azkadellia decides to keep him around for a while."The most creative tortures are reserved for those who resist Azkadellia.""Evil like that, you don't forget."





	1. Chapter 1

"How now, Ambrose?" The mocking, little-girl voice floated in through his ears, and it felt like it echoed in the hazy new emptiness there.

He couldn't imagine who she was talking to. Or who she was. Or where. . .

"Where am I?" he asked. He couldn't move, and he couldn't see anything but an expanse of white (which might be the ceiling), and the points of light dotting it. He didn't know what kind of place you couldn't move in.

"You don't remember?" the girl asked.

"Remember what?"

And suddenly, the world was uncomplicated.

There was a strange, slow metal tearing sound from above, and it felt like he'd been rearranged; his temples felt massaged, from a new pressure there, and his scalp tingled. He smiled, and closed his eyes.

"Oh, no, it looks like you've lost more than just one tiny little piece, doesn't it?" the sweet voice teased, and he half wondered who it belonged to. Had she been there a moment ago? 

A soft rushing sound, as of a sigh, or of wind in a tunnel, came to him, and he opened his eyes again. No, this definitely didn't look like a canyon. Why was there an echo? 

"Can you feel that?" the voice whispered, and the 'whoosh, oosh' was repeated. "Inside, I mean."

"No," he replied, "only in my ears." He giggled, then, and didn't much care why.

"Do you want to know what happened to you, Ambrose?"

"Is that my name?"

There was a pause. "No," she said, apologetically.

"Oh." Well, that was strange. Shouldn't he have a name? "Do you know what it is?"

"No," lied the voice. "But I do know what happened to you. Would you like to hear?"

"Oh, yes, please," he said, and grinned.

"All right, my dear. Do you remember what parietal bones are? And sagittal and coronal skull sutures...?"

He considered this carefully. "No," he said, finally.

A satisfied sigh. "I see. Then, what happened was this: a surgeon came and opened the middle your skull for you, breaking the little bits that held the bones together there, and pulled out every important piece of your brain that he could find, and then more for good measure, because you were in the way and wouldn't tell us what we needed to know." A cold feeling began to crawl down his neck and straight through his spine as she spoke. The world seemed more complicated, again. "It's never a good idea to be in the way of Azkadellia, is it?" she continued, softly. "So now you have only half of your brain left, and they sewed in a very nice zipper for you, in case they missed something and wanted to pull out a little more, later. Do you understand?"

"I think so," he said, slowly; this sounded very, very serious. He frowned. 

"Good. Now, they said it might feel strange, having the bones of your skull joined by nothing but your scalp and this little zipper--" she gave it a tug, "--and it does seem as though the bones do fall open a little when the zipper's undone. . . But, really, if we let the pieces heal together, we'd just have to break it open again, in future. So I'm going to recommend you open your zipper every so often--at least daily, for now--to make sure the way remains clear." Fingernails scraped slowly through his remaining hair, to either side of the shaved and stitched gap, and he shivered. "It is _good_ to have an open mind, isn't it? To remain flexible?"

After two beats, he laughed. "Yes."

"And to stay out of the way?" she prompted.

He paused. "...Yes?"

"Good, good boy," she purred, and with that, a cold, upside-down face came into view, black hair tumbling around him as she leaned in to kiss his forehead.

"That was nice," he said, as she left.

***

"Give it back!" he roared, struggling wildly against the medley of chains and straps around him. "I'll tear your eyes out! I'll flay you! I'll--"

"Shut _up,_ headcase," said one of the longcoats, striking him hard enough to knock him back to the ground. "You're not scaring anybody."

But this wasn't exactly true. He'd sent three guards flapping away in their black coats, one after the other--like horrible crows, he'd thought--when they'd each tried to fetch him from his cell, alone. That was how he'd wound up here, with an escort of four, his wrists cuffed together in front of him, his feet chained to them by a short tether and to one another with a shorter one, his neck collared and tethered to his wrists, and enough chain around the whole thing to weigh down two men.

The reality of his situation had finally become clear to him.

The easy violence of which he was capable, when undrugged, unconcerned about the dignity of his station, and freed of his left-brain's balancing, rational influence, had finally become clear to the longcoats. 

Dizzy from a few casual kicks he was dealt before being dragged back up from the ground, however, he forgot that he was capable of it, himself, and was thrown harmlessly at the feet of Azkadellia.

The first longcoat (whose eye was blacked and lip split) spat on him where he lay. "He's turned into some kind of animal, Sorceress," the man reported. "A stupid beast, violent and dangerous. I say we put him down."

She tsk'd, and bent down over the prone figure. "Now, we couldn't do that, not to our old friend," she said. "We might need another piece of his pathetic little brain. And besides, don't you know that the best way to deal with a beast is to train it? You need to tame them." She knelt beside him, tilting her head to watch him. After a moment, she reached out to stroke her fingers through his hair, and he tried to pull away, turning his face to the floor, but he had nowhere to go. Her nails scratched easily over his scalp, and she smiled. "You just need to break them."

The sound of knuckles popping ominously crackled through the tension. "It will be a pleasure, Sorceress."

"Yes, it will be. For me. _You_ are dismissed."

"Sorceress," said the longcoat, aggrieved, "are you certain that's wise? It could be dange--"

"Are you questioning me?" Her voice was low and dark, full of warning.

"N-no, Sorceress. Of course not." He clicked his heels, bowed, and left, followed by the rest of the guard.

When they were alone, she narrowed her eyes and smiled down at her captive again. "Do you understand, pet? I have taken your brain, and I am going to break you, and then when I am done with you, I will probably kill you." And always, her voice was sweet, soothing but for her words. As she reached to cup his cheek in her hand, she brightened. "You know, I might crucify you up on a high pole, at the city entry, and let the birds peck your eyes out, so that everyone knows what happens to those who cross me."

Uneasy tears had filled his eyes. "But I'm afraid of heights," he whispered.

"Really? That's good to know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe this was the first Glitch/Az to hit the scene (the fandom had existed for just about one week when I started posting this). I needed me some fetish, and I also wanted to play with some of the weirder/more interesting aspects of Glitch's character, like (a) why he had a zipper, (b) why the hell he'd ever have it open, (c) flights of terror and aversion after having been infinitely noble, (d) evasiveness and aversion to fights (even when he can clearly fight), etc. ...Plus, Alan Cumming just seems like he'd make a great pet.


	2. Chapter 2

He was too scared to scream.

"I just need you to apologize, pet," Azkadellia (he certainly knew her name, now) was calling up to him, from the ground. "Then I'll have her bring you back down to the ground. It's that simple. Just say, 'Forgive me, Azkadellia, for standing in your way.' Even if you don't remember how you did it. That's all."

He was also too scared to speak.

"Very well. Tell the guard when you're ready to do it, and he will come notify me. Xora, hang him up on the chandelier." After the mobat obeyed, she swooped after her mistress, and away.

"Help," he whispered.

***

After two hours of swinging ominously from the chandelier by his chains, he had passed through many kinds of terror, in and out of screaming, thrashing, and utter, petrified silence. He'd even grown so confused in one moment that he'd let the horrible thing rock him to sleep, and he'd dangled there, like a ragdoll, dead to the world.

When he woke, his blinking eyes registered the horrible sight of the huge, blank floor, thirty feet below him, and there, just at the peripheral, his salvation.

Beside her, the guard was muttering, "We weren't sure he hadn't died of fright or something, so we thought we should come get you. Just in case."

"Fine," she said, shortly, and continued to watch her prisoner's desperate attempt to remain absolutely still. She folded her arms expectantly.

"Um. May I--may I come down?" he asked, in the smallest voice he had.

"When you ask for my forgiveness."

"Um," he tried, "forgive me?"

"For...?" she prompted generously.

"For standing in your. . . " And just like that, understanding flitted away. "Where was I standing? Surely I'm hanging, not standing..."

She closed her eyes, and turned her head a fraction away, the very picture of gravely tried patience. "In my way," she sighed.

"Oh! Right! In your way," he finished. "Sorry for.. in your way.. like that," he added, vaguely.

Azkadellia sighed and there was a ripple of light, as she moved, where it glinted off of the steel boning of her corset. "I suppose that's good enough, for now. Xora, my love, fetch him down."

That was almost as unpleasant as the dangling, itself. When the monkey-bat had swooped low and brought him within a handful of feet of the floor, she dropped him, and when he hit the ground he kept moving, sliding to a halt some feet away.

"Ow," he reported.

Immediately, he hugged the cold, solid ground beneath him as best he could, still restricted as he was. But he curled his fingers against the floor and gave it a kiss, for good measure. He even closed his eyes, and meant to sleep there, but a sharp clicking brought his attention back up.

Azkedellia's pointed shoes stopped in front of his face, and then her hand was tangled in his now slightly dishevelled curls, pulling painfully upwards. He rose onto his hands and knees, reflexively, to ease the strain, balancing awkwardly.

"Now, crawl, or I'll hang you up there again, and this time the mobats will nibble at you while you're there."

"No," he pleaded. And when she started to walk, stooping down close to him as if she had him on a choke leash, he stumbled along beside her. 

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"My chambers," she answered, and then kicked him, lightly. "And be quiet."

***

He stayed stock still, pressed back into the wall, the point of the knife rested up against his throat, just above his iron collar.

"I'm going to let you out of some of these, my pretty little pet, so that we can get you out of those nice clothes of yours, and you're going to be very good while I do. Aren't you?"

"W-why," he stammered, "why do you want my clothes off?"

The knife-tip pressed harder into his skin, but its silent threat was still overshadowed by the implicit threat that she could have him hung from the rafters, again. Or dropped from them. "You'll just have to wait and find out, won't you?"

He tried to speak and failed. Nervously, he lifted his chin further from the blade.

"Now hold still," she muttered, and between her free hand and a bit of magic, she unlocked and released his cuffs, removing them from the leash of chain that had connected them to his collar. They fell to the floor with a dull thunk, the chain that held them to his ankle bonds still attached and clinking, on the way down.

"There," she said, pleased with herself. "Now you can undo all of those fiddly little clasps on your nice purple coat for me."

"What--s-strip?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "Slowly. Each of those little clasps, one at a time."

"Listen, I assure you that even without my brain, I know I'm a--a more dignified man than that. It's not right to--"

Azkadellia cut him off with a wave of her hand that temporarily sealed his mouth with magic. "Listen to me, pet, you've got no dignity left, here. If you feel you must talk back to me, I'll have your mouth sewn shut permanently. Understand?" She punctuated that with another light dig of the knife.

He nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Good. Then get on with it," she growled.

He did. His hands trembled as he began, stumbling over one another as he struggled not to look at them, to keep his chin up and away from danger.

"Good, pet," she soothed him then, and freed his mouth with another wave. "Azkadellia will take good care of you. For now."

His face was pink and flustered when he finally, reluctantly undid the last clasp, and let the coat fall open, over his still fairly crisp white shirt.

"Off," she instructed him.

"What?"

"Take it _off._ "

Nausea blooming in his stomach, he shifted the garment back from his tense shoulders, and let it slide down his arms to pool behind him. 

He felt naked, without his coat; he hadn't realized how properly he'd still been dressed, until then. He wrapped his arms around himself reflexively, but she pried them back apart.

"No. No modesty, here. Now, your shirt."

He closed his eyes, and began to untuck and unbutton it, but he couldn't manage to make his hands do his bidding, to pull it off and away. He crossed it tightly over himself, instead, and shook.

"Hmm. Maybe you're not quite so stupid after all. I think you do have an idea of what's going on," the sorceress murmured low, reaching one of her gloved hands to his chest, trailing it down to his belly. "It must be strange for you--you led such a lonely life... And you _did_ watch me grow up, after all. But it's not so bad. You'll come out of it in one piece--which is something I can't say about other things I could do to you. Have already done to you..." Her fingers slid up under the shirt, to the thin white undershirt he had on beneath it, pulling it, too, free of his trousers. "In fact, I think you'll come to beg for it--as a nice alternative to all the rest. So why don't you just be a good boy and take it off? Do what your mistress bids." 

Her voice was so deep, now! He tried to lean back, as her forehead came right up against his, her breath hot against his face. "Come on, pet," she coaxed, twisting the blade of her knife slowly against his throat. "Drop it. I'll go a little easier on you," she promised sweetly.

Had he watched her grow up? Could that be? He couldn't recall her as anything but this, this terrible young woman. He bit his lip, and slipped his shirt off, only now daring to look at her face, beautiful and wicked. What kind of fate was this?

"Good boy," she purred, and withdrew her knife. "You can take that off, too," she said, and gestured to the undershirt, and wordlessly, this time, he did, having to fuss with it to get it to come off, over the chain that still dangled from his throat. When the chain drooped in against his stomach, cold to the touch, he jolted. He hoped she wouldn't notice.

But she did, of course. Azkadellia saw everything. 

Curious to see if she could recreate the effect, she gathered the leash into her hand, and trailed some of the metal across his chest, dangling the edge of it down along his waist. When he shivered, she laughed mirthlessly. "So sensitive, old friend. You spent too long being pampered in the palace." The chill spread around his side and up his back, as she pulled the chain around his body and up against him. "Don't you know that you'll be very cold, if I want you to be? And burned with fever if I say? You had better get used to it." And with that, she had gripped the chain, high, near his neck, and started to pull him inescapably downward at the point of her fist. He finally collapsed to his knees.

And as she pushed him back, back, until he was bent all the way to the ground, she whispered, "We're going to have such fun, my pretty."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know his undershirt when we meet him in the series is dark and striped. But since it looks so comparatively fresh (that coat used to be _purple?_ ), and doesn't fit with the fancy suit, I declare it to be something he found along the way, later.


	3. Chapter 3

"I thought I dismissed you. Can't you tell that I'm busy?" Azkadellia couldn't exactly kill with a look, but it was only a matter of time.

The longcoat glanced over her shoulder into the room, to be met with a fairly distressing sight. Busy was one word for it. 

The prisoner was lying on the ground--no, he was on his knees, but bent painfully back, so that the distinction was almost useless--with his collar and reattached cuffs both chained to the floor beyond his head, stretching him taut. His pale belly was bare, and marked with the sort of lazy red scratches that only well trained fingernails can occasion, and he seemed to be having trouble breathing, with as tight as the collar pulled up against his throat. That, or he was about four heartbeats away from hyperventilating. Every breath lifted his entire ribcage from the floor in a desperate undulation, with the strain.

And _both_ of his zippers were open.

"Yes, Sorceress," the guard said slowly, stepping back. "I apologize. The scientists only wished to keep you informed on their progress with the, ah... " The finger she placed to her lips paused him, and he instead mouthed the word 'brain.' "Whenever you have time," he finished aloud.

"Any new developments?" she asked, cautiously.

"Some small successes, Sorceress. They're still not certain about the, ah... overall viability." He glanced significantly at the straining prisoner once more. "They think it will work, but they still aren't absolutely certain they have all the-- _tools_ \--they'll need."

Azkadellia smiled at the guard, and he grinned, obviously pleased with his cleverness. But her smile disappeared far faster than it had come. "Go," she said, "and stop interrupting."

The guard was not clear of the door, when she shoved it shut. The thud and groan that followed made the captive go still.

"What was that?" he whispered. "Who's there?"

When her footsteps clicked nearer, he gasped. "What was that?" he whispered again. "Who's there?"

"You already said that," she snapped. "One, it shouldn't concern you, and two, me."

"Azkadellia...!" His struggles began anew. "Help! Somebody!" he shouted, "Let me--Oh." And understanding clicked back into place.

"'Oh,'" she repeated, smirking. "That's right, my pet, no one here will come to your rescue. I am the world, pretty one, your life and death and pain and pleasure. You can only cry to me."

And when one hand slipped into his hair, grazing its thumb over his zipper, and the other slid into his trousers and coiled, she promised all at once.

"Tell me, old friend," she said, over his gasping, "do you still remember how to make love? Do you still remember what it feels like to have the body of another overwhelm and absorb you?"

Part of him clearly did, whatever his half a brain said about it or didn't. But she tightened her grips, and made clear that not speaking was not an option. "Yes," he croaked, "I think--yes."

"Good," she said. "I'm so bored of guards."

He was left cold, when her hands disappeared, and he whimpered in spite of himself, but very soon a new and cloudier warmth suffused him as she stepped over his body and arranged the fabric of her skirts over his chest and legs. The heavy satin felt like a blanket, and when she sank down into a crouch, hovering over his arched hips, the warmth of her body was as comforting as feather down duvets, next to the chill of the floor.

And as one of her hands crept down between them, seeking, understanding once again found an open slot in the prisoner's scattered brain--albeit an inappropriate one--and his tension changed. "Ooh," he said, suddenly, pulling taut against his cuffs, "I've heard about _these_ kinds of games." A startlingly delighted smile broke open as his eyes closed and his unzipped head lolled back. "That could be fun. But do I know you, Doll? It's nice to meet you, anyway," he added, mischievously, before she could answer.

Azkadellia froze, blinking, her fingers millimeters from grasping him beneath her. Her mouth opened, reconsidered, and then gave up altogether, hanging aghast.

After a few moments of her prisoner wriggling below her, she finally withdrew her hand and let out a disgusted huff. "That's not fair," she snapped. "You're supposed to beg and--and fight and be utterly degraded." She narrowed her eyes, suspiciously. "You're not faking, are you? You can't lie to me, you know..."

"Oh, sorry, right. I just don't think I've ever done this kind of thing before, I don't know how it's supposed to go." After a pause, he shrugged as well as he was able and did what he thought was his best. "Um, please, mercy?" He couldn't suppress a giggle, though, and now thoroughly fed up, Azkadellia stood, backed off of him, and (after rearranging her garments suitably) stormed out of the room.

"I wonder what that was all about," he murmured.

After only a few moments of wondering, the door groaned open again, and was accompanied by the almost familiar clicking of heels. Then there was a crack of thunder, and he found he had his very own personal snow flurry, whipping around him violently.

"Laugh at that, pet," she said, rather too sulkily, and was again gone.

***

"So far, the viewers have been able to find the basic outlines of the blueprints, and we've recreated the shell of them. We think that everything we need will be here, but there is a possible omission here--" the scientist pointed to a corner of the skeletal outlines they had drawn, "--so it would be desirable to keep him a little longer, just in case we missed it."

"Damn." Azkadellia was pacing. "Fine, fine. Just hurry up."

"Sorceress," the scientist warned, as gently as he could, "It could take us a year or more to recreate the blueprints fully--"

"Just make sure you have the basic structure, and that you have what you need to do the rest."

"But if some important detail is left out, left still in his--"

"Why must everyone undermine me, today? What don't you understand about my orders?" She wheeled on him and approached. "Listen to me very carefully. I'll give you one month, and then I'm throwing him away. If you happen to have been so inept that you missed something, I will send someone out to find him again. And find someone to replace you."

The scientist nodded, digesting this and searching for a way to go forward tactfully. "Forgive me, Sorceress," he began slowly. "Would it not, perhaps, be easier to simply keep him imprisoned indefinitely?"

"Easier, perhaps. But if we keep him indefinitely, he'll be forgotten, presumed killed, and the Queen's last few supporters will think that it is only a matter of life and death to oppose me. I need him thrown back out to the wolves of Central City, so that the rumor spreads that Ambrose the Advisor is still alive, even if he can't confirm it. _Especially_ if he can't confirm it. I need to show them a broken, silly man, deprived of everything that once made him great. I need him to be reviled as a criminal, under the new law. _Then_ he can be forgotten."

"I see, Sorceress." He bowed, slightly. "You are, as ever, wise. We will work as quickly as we can."

Mollified, Azkadellia nodded and left.

***

"Hello?" he called. "Can you hear me? It's very cold, and I seem to be stuck. . ."

When the sorceress swished into view, he yelped, and tried to make himself a smaller target, though he had nowhere to go. 

"Well, old friend," she asked, "do you remember who I am, yet?" Her arms were folded, but her face was a mask of serenity.

"Oh, gods, _Azkadellia_ \--" He struggled anew. "Help! Somebody! Let me--Oh."

"Right," she said. "Are you ready to be warm, yet? You only have to ask, pet. For my affection." She smoothed her skirt significantly, but with as much dignity as she could muster.

The battle was played out on his face as clearly as if he were explaining it all point for point with an accompanying chart, and Azkadellia was pleased to see it. But the essential dilemma kept coming to this: Freeze? Or become a whore to Azkadellia?

Whatever things might be damaged in his head, however, his brainstem was not one of them, and it was reminding him urgently, desperately, that heat and sex and safety were three of the big ...however many, and morals had nothing to do with that. And it only had half as much resistance as usual, from the rest of his brain. After a few more terrible, icy moments, there was no resistance left at all.

"Please," he keened. "I'm so cold."

"I know, my pet," she said, her sympathy passable. And when she stepped into the snow, it faded away and left him dry, if shaking and pale. "Here," she said, "I will warm you."

And once again, she was hovering over him, blanketing him with her skirts, soothing him with her magic, and comforting him with fingers in his hair. She stroked his scalp sweetly, and slid herself so slowly and so gently over the skin beneath her that, even shivering and frightened, he couldn't help but oblige her, and wake to her coaxing.

"This time," she promised, "I will get you, my pretty." And with that, and one clever hand, she drew him in, and undid him.

He did not forget who she was, that night. Or ever again.


	4. Chapter 4

"I'm so hungry," he complained, quietly. "Please, Azkadellia, I need to eat something."

"Of course you do, pet. I haven't fed you all day." (There was enough food in front of _her_ for four.)

The subtle pout of his confused expression drew her eye. "You haven't?" he asked. 

She was pleased to note that he sounded a little hurt. Sometimes it took a while for him to notice when she was being cruel, but she was willing to exercise a little patience, in this matter, under the circumstances. He would catch on, eventually, after all. And he had no restraint, when it came to complaining, so she at least always knew where they stood.

"No, I haven't," she replied calmly, and took another dainty bite from her plate. And one from her bowl. And a sip from her glass, and another bite of--

"Please?" he blurted, "Please feed me?"

'There,' she thought, 'that didn't take too long.' She swallowed and dabbed her mouth, before twisting around in her chair to coolly survey him. When he finally quailed under her gaze, and bowed his head, she leaned down to offer him a spoonful of food from her bowl. He swallowed it eagerly, so she fed him another and scratched behind his ear benevolently. "Good boy," she purred, as he only barely flinched from her hand.

Glitch, as he was now somewhat affectionately being called by the Sorceress and a few of the scientists and longcoats (on account of the little glitches he suffered at inopportune moments), was kneeling fairly quietly beside her chair--a habit he'd learned at the point of the shock rod, the mobat's claws, the chandelier, six longcoats, starvation, and Azkadellia's body. It had only taken two weeks for it to become a mostly consistent one, which, his mistress reflected, was not at all bad, considering the equipment he had for learning with.

As he reached past her, though, trying to sneak a scrap of bread from her table, she decided that he was still far too prone to these little failures in obedience. But, it gave her further cause to hurt him, which was a gift she wouldn't put away lightly, so she merely twisted her fingers hard into his tangling curls and kept eating with her free hand, until tears came to his eyes and he dropped the food.

"Sorry," he said, strained, blind, "please--please let go."

"You must learn to behave, Glitch," she told him in her most cheerful sing-song. "You're getting in the way, again."

"I--I know, Azkadellia. I'm sorry..." His fingers sought balance on the floor, but couldn't quite reach.

"Are you?"

"Yes," he said fervently. "Yes, please, uh--please forgive me?"

After a moment's consideration, she pushed his head towards the floor, and let go of his hair. "All right. You can even have the piece you stole, if you eat it from the floor--but no more snatching from the table," she scolded, and he nodded eagerly, as he lowered himself to the ground in a dog's bow over the food.

Azkadellia hid in her wine glass and indulged a private smile.

***

Glitch had not kicked a guard in over a week, and he was beginning to forget he had ever been able to. It was proving more dangerous to him to try it, these days, than to not, because there were always enough of them now to overwhelm him, and things went very badly afterwards. At least, he was fairly sure that was true; it was becoming harder and harder to keep the days in order.

In any case, he was being fed most days, now, he was almost certain of that. He wasn't injured as often or as badly, he was getting as much sex as he could handle--more, even--and they had taken off most of his chains, so as far as he could see, he was moving up in the world, however strange a world it might be. He even had a straw mattress on the floor by the foot of Azkadellia's bed, now, and he had twice had the chance to wash his entire body _and_ his clothing. The sorceress herself had washed his hair for him, something he discovered he had a great deal of trouble doing on his own; it was too hard to keep his zipper from getting too wet or too soapy, and he didn't want it to rust, after all. And the urge to fiddle with it was too overwhelming to be borne.

He had come to enjoy having it opened far, far too much.

The prospect of having anything inside re-broken had been a good enough motivator to keep the way clear and mobile, but he had forgotten that warning after only a few days. In the face of the strange glee that came from the echo of his skull and the buzzing of his scalp when he opened it, he didn't need it. And that lovely pressure at his temples, the feeling like his forehead was being cut loose, the sheer blissful openness...! When he was left alone with a hand free, he would just sit and tug it back and forth, and listen to the groan of it.

The thought occurred to him, one quiet afternoon when he was toying with it, that once he would have been very busy with something... something important, at this hour. Before Azkadellia.

But gods help him if he could remember what it was.

***

"Come here, pet."

Glitch steeled himself and crawled up onto the bed, from his soft spot on the floor. He had forgotten, for the moment, what a lush palace bed felt like, and nearly lost his balance as it sank and squished beneath him. But Azkadellia only smiled her derision, so he waited for the rocking to cease and journeyed onward, creeping up and over her body with care. 

_This_ was what he did with his evenings, now.

She gave him no more instructions, for the moment, but he knew his place relatively well. He was learning to keep out of trouble, and in her good graces, often for long enough that she would give in and tell him what to do, though he thought sometimes that she was only waiting to try to trap him into displeasing her. Still, he did his best. He was sweet. He tried to be calm. He tried to please her.

Occasionally it worked.

He bent down slowly and kissed her shoulder, careful to keep the mess of his hair from tickling her face. When he was not struck for this, he shifted back and kissed her belly, through her corset. He kissed the insides of her wrists, and the tops of her knees through her skirt, and just to the left of the center of her forehead. 

He kissed her hair, where it lay across her pillow. He kissed her smallest fingertip.

And when he ran out of ideas, he sat back, perched over her thighs, looking nervously at the terrible loveliness of her and trying to stop his shaking. What kind of fate was this? he wondered, and did not know that he had wondered it before, and many times. What kind of fate was it to want and fear, together? To hate and long so much? 

And then he forgot it again, and kissed a spot just inside her elbow.

Azkadellia laughed, and for a moment, in the right light, she could have been any other girl, but it was more fleeting than Glitch's moment of existential reflection. In an instant, she was twisting his hair into stiff coils around her fingers, and tugging him up and away. "Fine. That's a good boy," she said, as she released him. "You may undress me now, my pretty pet, and then yourself."

Even this was a mixed blessing, though. He was able to unlace her shoes with little trauma, and he had mastered gloves, but something about corsets mystified Glitch. Every time he was "allowed" to help her, he had to relearn their strange mechanics, and it always seemed as though it took a stroke of luck, in the end, anyway. Should he pull? Should he press? Should he peel? Was it some impossible mixture of the three? Eventually, as she began to arch her eyebrows impatiently, he just closed his eyes and prayed, and this distraction allowed his hands to do the work they weren't entirely unfamiliar with. By the time he looked down, again, the horrifying contraption had bloomed, and Azkadellia was free of its violent embrace.

He sighed his relief. He tried not to think too much about how it had happened, as it took up more of his synapses than he could really spare when he might have to dodge a blow, but he committed himself to trying to remember when he'd learned that, as soon as he was alone. He braced himself, tried to focus, and delicately peeled her skirt down her legs and away, and caught one of her stockings by pure luck as he did. He missed the other, but she let it slide. 

He backed off to strip, and Azkadellia watched him as she rolled down her other stocking. He hadn't ever managed to rebutton all the little clasps on his coat (and one of them was already coming loose from several failed attempts), so it just hung open rakishly to be shed with the minimum of worry. The rest he seemed to be getting the hang of, night by night. 

He missed one of his socks, too, but she forgave that, as well.

"Close enough," she murmured as she leaned back into the mattress. "Now come over here."

***

It felt like losing a fight. 

He knew that he should feel like he had a shred of control over the situation--he wasn't tied up, he was moving at his own pace, and it was sex for gods' sakes, he hadn't exactly said _no_ \--and he was even fairly sure that he wanted it. But somehow, he felt more helpless than he remembered ever having felt before. As Azkadellia lay there, quiet but practically pulsing beneath him as he pulled himself over and over into her, rocking them both up the sheets like Sisyphus against the boulder, he knew in his bones that she was pushing him to a precipice. He felt like a wagon about to careen off of a cliff.

'She's stealing my soul,' he thought, half mad, 'like she stole my mind.'

He had this thought every time.

And when he could see the edge of the cliff in the distance, he closed his eyes and prayed to die of the fall.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I consider Glitch's hair, as of the series, to be pretty much matted into dreads, rather than proper twisty curls. Boy looks pretty grungy. Also, the balcony in question here is Not that massive number that Azkadellia tries to kill DG with. This is off of another room entirely, perhaps in an earlier incarnation of her place of power--she's just captured Ambrose, after all, and the Queen hasn't fallen completely, yet.

The gloom was palpable. The late autumn rain had swallowed all light and sound that wasn't its own, but that was plenty: a dull thundering spilled in through the open doors of the balcony, and Azkadellia's bed chambers felt close and damp for it. And the Sorceress was as stormy as the weather. 

Glitch was passed out, face first, across the foot of her bed, and she was toying with the length of golden piping that had been severed from his coat, an hour before. One leg was draped lazily over his neck, just in case he should wake (she would hate to miss a chance to panic him needlessly), but she only watched him off-handedly; just enough to register a vague sense of boredom and loathing. And, of course, of triumph. 

But as she wrapped the cord around her fingers, she thought of him, of magic, of lust, and of the O.Z. She thought of the steamy, sultry air, and the height of her second-floor balcony. She was sure she was very close to what could be a very, very good idea, if she could only just twist it into shape.

***

She managed.

"I'm not sure I understand, Sorceress."

"What about it escapes you? I want breathable bliss. I can make the feeling with magic, but I need a liquid that can hold it, so that it can be spread without me having to go door to door. Can't you do that?"

"Well, yes, but..." The scientist, ever a sadist, was baffled, "Sorceress, _why?_ "

"Our old friend gave me the idea, though he doesn't know it," she said, idly folding the cord between her fingers. "It's amazing how docile someone can become when they can't think through a haze of ecstacy."

Recognition dawned. "Yes, Sorceress."

She smiled coolly. "A complement to the shock rods, if you will." 

" _Yes,_ Sorceress," the scientist replied, with a little too much eagerness.

"I want it ready within the week," she said, suddenly stern, "so that we can test it on our resident animal before he's released back into the wild."

"It will be done, Sorceress. You have my word."

"Good. Which reminds me; are your viewers on pace with the blueprints?"

"Yes, Sorceress. We think you'll be able to get rid of him on schedule."

Azkadellia graced him with an indulgent smile. "Perfect."

 

***

The Sorceress was bent over her vanity table in a flurry of writing, and the scratching of her pen sounded exactly as delighted, violent, and preoccupied as she felt. How best to run her little experiment? What did she _most_ want from it? 

Glitch was fairly well hopelessly infatuated with her, these days. She had been too busy to beat him and too distracted to seduce him, and in the strange haze of the world where that was normal, he felt lonely. He crept up behind her on all fours to thread his arms through the back of her chair and around her waist, and lay his cheek on her hip, but she had no patience for the sad, light little kisses he pressed to her leg, and waved him away with an excessive sweep of magic.

He landed against the far wall with a groan.

"Now go kneel out on the balcony, pet," she murmured, "and leave me alone. I don't have time, right now."

"But, Azkadee," he pleaded, once he had collected himself from the ground, "it's raining..."

"Good. You could use a bath," she muttered, and he sulked obediently out through the door.

Glitch muttered to himself, as he did: "If you'd let me. . ." "If you'd wash my hair. . ." "It hasn't been that long, anyway. . . " But, he settled himself down on his knees in the center of the wide balcony, trying not to look over the edge. He got up again and sat down properly, instead, wrapping his arms around his knees. He waited.

He wondered what he was doing out in the rain.

He liked the rain, he decided, so he stopped wondering.

Glitch laid back onto the stone, and let the back of his head fall into one of the deeper puddles as the rain followed paths down his face, and snuck in under his chin and around his neck. He almost scolded it for tickling him, but realized that this might be a silly thing to do. Instead, he stretched out, and scratched his fingers through his hair, trying to work through a few of the mats and tangles in his curls that were already nearing the point of no return from neglect. Another few months like the last one, he thought, and he'd be a permanent mess of twisted, curling dreads (rather than his dreaded twisting curls). And then he laughed, because he knew he'd been very clever.

He couldn't keep his eyes open to the sky, so he gave up on his hair and laid his ear in the water, to listen to the stone, and there fell asleep.

Azkadellia, meanwhile, was deciding she had two specific aims in her little project: (1) Making the aggrieved--who were likely to cause trouble--forget that they were aggrieved, and (2) making placid, drivable animals of the populace. She could think of ways to get a little anecdotal evidence for each, from her pet, faulty subject though he might be, but she was not at all sure she could manage both at once. Of course, she could mist him, and see if he would walk carelessly into danger at her behest (aim 2), but could she then make him forgive her (if just for a moment) if she misted him again when he crawled back out of it (aim 1)? Should she try only one, to be surer? Would she have time to try the other, later?

No, she decided. She could let the scientists do as many tests as they wished to work out the fine tuning, later. For now, she would aim high, and dose hard, and see what came of it. 

***

"What's that?"

After a few days, the rain had stopped, and a cool dry wind had swept away all signs of it but the mud below, but Azkadellia still hovered in the doorway, a few feet from him.

"It's a present, my pet," she lied in her sweetest voice, as she lifted the glass bottle with its bulb pump towards him. "I want to see if you like it. Tell me the truth? It's very important."

"Oh, yes, of co--" And the mist clouded around his face, stopping the excited Glitch mid-word.

"Take a deep breath," she said, backing up slightly from the fine spray. "As deep as you can."

And as he did, his expression melted into something beatific. "Wow," he sighed.

"One more?" she asked, but didn't wait before dosing him again--and then once more--with her Vapors.

"Yes," he sighed, dreamily, drifting his fingers through it and swallowing it up. "I feel so... so..."

Azkadellia set the bottle down onto the ground, watching him carefully all the while, and picked up the sheaf of paper and pen she had left behind her heel. He never finished his sentence. 

"Glitch?" she asked, quietly, when she had waited a few moments longer and jotted down a few notes. His hands still hovered in the air in front of him, but he opened his eyes slowly, trying to watch the infinitesimal beads of the mist that had settled on his eyelashes, as he did.

"Yes?" he whispered.

"Walk backwards to the edge of the balcony, darling."

He drifted, more than walked, but he got there eventually, feathering his fingertips along the stone as he came to rest.

She gripped her pen excitedly, and scratched out a note. "Good boy," she encouraged him, then, and his eyes closed in his delight. "Can you sit on the edge?"

"I think so."

What kind of fate was this? he wondered, and then laughed for no reason at all.

She waited for him to get settled, made a few more marks, and then approached, still keeping a few feet of distance from him. "Do you know how high up you are, my pretty one?"

"Mm. About fifteen feet?"

"Something like that," she said gently, and placed one palm squarely on his chest.

"Tell me, my dear," she purred, "can you tell what I'm doing, right now?"

"You're... you're pushing me?" he tried, and there was a little curiosity in his tone, but no fear.

"Yes," she said. "That's very good. I'm going to push you off of the balcony, now, my pet."

Glitch batted his lashes, slowly, and tilted his head. "You are?"

"Yes," she said, and with an utterly disingenuous apology, she did.

***

When Glitch woke up, he could not--or would not--stop shouting. He had attacked two guards before he even realized that his left ankle was twisted quite badly, and wouldn't support his weight. And when he tried to pull himself back up from the floor, where he had fallen soon after, he found that his right shoulder had taken too much damage to be of any use to him there, either.

So he stayed on the floor, pushed himself back into the corner of the cell, and threatened more bodily harm than he could really manage to anyone who tried to come near.

It was a strange stand-off.

When Azkadellia appeared some minutes later, notes, bottle, and scientist in tow, she found him a loud mess of mud, scratches, and bruises, barely recognizable from an hour before.

He paused in his litany to the longcoats in the corridor just long enough to snap at her, "I swear I'll kill you. You just stay away from me!"

She only smiled. "Of course," she said patronizingly, and set to rearranging her notes. "Oh. Guards," she added, lazily, without looking up, and it was only the work of a minute for a handful of them to have him pinned tightly into place.

He still struggled violently. "Tsk. Like a cornered animal," Azkadellia murmured, and she thought she could almost hear his heartbeat, thundering away. "Here," she said, kindly, as she knelt in near to him. "In the interest of science, and not being in so much pain, take a deep breath."

Glitch tried very hard to not breathe, as one does, but when he finally did give in and gulp at the air, Azkadellia was ready with another pump, right into his open mouth.

After a pregnant moment, his head lolled back onto a longcoat.

After cautiously checking his pulse, Azkadellia asked, "Do you feel better?"

"Mn," Glitch mumbled, "Ns--es." And when this made him giggle, he winced, and tried to cradle his shoulder, but couldn't pull free of the longcoats to do it. He pouted.

"Let him go," she instructed the guards, and when they did, Glitch curled, to favor his arm, but otherwise stayed still and quiet, smiling in a distracted kind of way. Satisfied it was safe, Azkadellia waved the scientist in closer. "All right. Put him back together." Any trace of sweetness was gone from her voice. "And you," she said, pointing to one of her longcoats, "bring the wagon around. I want it ready to go before the suns set."

***

And so it was that the Queen's closest advisor, his dislocated shoulder reset, his arm in a sling, and his sprained ankle bandaged, was bundled bodily into the back of a truck headed for the far side of Central City, as the suns began to set. His imperially purple coat was muddied, of course, he was stoned out of his head (on top of which there was a half-opened zipper), and his hair was nothing but knots. And it was, after all, getting dark, so it was hard to see anything too well... but the rumor still slithered around, here and there, between those who thought they knew what he looked like, that it was him, or at least that it could be, and that that was certainly something to think about.

And when Glitch woke up, shivering through the fog in his brain, to the sight of a road that he thought might take him very, very far away from the last month of his life, towards _escape,_ he rolled himself out of the truckbed, found his feet, and limped off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I think he's not going to lose the white undershirt for another winter or two, and then he'll pick up the stripey one off of a scarecrow on someone's farm, for a little extra warmth.  
> 2) In my world, Glitch (in between being tossed out and being re-brained) probably tends to bathe with his clothes still on and not as often as he should (hence all of the purple being faded out of his coat and pants, and the generally greasy/dingy look when we find him during the series) and has never really figured out the mechanics of washing/combing his hair.  
> 3) Someone will give Glitch a very big hug over all of this, in the future. Once he remembers it. And if you happen to be one of the magical readers out there who tolerates both kinky het and sad/sweet slash, you can stay tuned for "...You Don't Forget."


End file.
